Five months later, since the two newborn primordials were welcomed with celebration.
In the Nihilith Void Archon Castle, in the very ethereal confines of Nyxander's chamber, the newborn primordial was getting his daily massage. The chamber was enormous, resonating with an ambient glow, faintly pulsating with the energies of the cosmos, its design a blend of incomprehensible geometry and primal artistry.
Two enormous nannies shimmered as if they were molded from the stars themselves as they folded and manipulated his joints with grace both nurturing and ceremonial.
While humans ate and drank, and ritually cleansed themselves in the most mundane hygienic manner, the primordials only required the absorption of pure energy to sustain themselves-their bodies an eternal radiance, rather than a fleshly vessel prone to sweat. Yet, these massages were a necessary rite for the newly created, their forms supple, free, and unrestricted to wield the great cosmic power locked within them.
One of the colossal nannies, her arms as steady as marble columns, slid her hands under Nyxander's armpits and tugged upwards. He would have soared into the air like an orbiting planet tugged by gravitational pull.
As she held him aloft, though, the silent, collective stare of the nannies in the room invariably fell to the most curious feature of Nyxander's form: that strange, excess appendage between his legs. This "joystick," as they had come to call it, was an anomaly in their world of uniformity-a singular marker of distinction that set Nyxander apart from his Primordial brethren, who bore no such features.
It had been the whispered fascination and unspoken rivalry since his birth, as far as the caretakers of the castle were concerned, in an ongoing frenzy over who would be entrusted with his care.
The interest had been so fierce that the nannies of the castle had competed without cease for his care. There were moments when this rivalry degenerated into anarchy-so rosters and schedules had to be drawn up to specify who should attend to him. Even these attempts at order crumbled in the face of their longing, amidst disputes so fierce that even the laws of the cosmos faltered.
Matters escalated to the point where tests of strength and prowess, great duels akin to the gladiatorial games of old, were held for the right to tend Nyxander's form. These combats, too, eventually came to be outlawed, their vehemence unseemly even in the limitless tumult of the Primordials.
In the center of this maelstrom was Nyxander's joystick, a beacon of inexplicable attraction, drawing in the nannies' admiration like moths to a divine flame.
"Look, the young lord's rubber stick has grown a bit," the right-hand-standing nanny exclaimed over the one carrying Nyxander. Her voice flowed with a mixture of awe and curiosity, as if she was detailing a rare aerial phenomenon.
"Hm, you are right," the other replied, nodding with the solemnity of a scholar gazing upon a groundbreaking discovery.
Their eyes lingered on the joystick, which swayed gently, its movements as mesmerizing as the pendulum of a cosmic clock. Like devoted scientists studying an enigma of creation, they reached out with reverent hands, their fingers trembling with anticipation.
They would give it the usual, soft tug, so used to doing this and handling it with all the tender care it would be possible to lavish on some super-valuable relic of priceless merit.
But as their hands reached out, Nyxander could feel that the air was peculiar coming off them, an aura full of kudos and hard unrelenting resolve. Fearing the former intention, and rather skeptical about their constant interest in his prick, he just reacted instinctively.
In an instant, with but a flicker of thought, his form shimmered and shrank to evade their grasp. Energy cracked around him as he darted out through that narrow space beneath the door, leaving the two nannies in place, their outstretched hands grasping at air, their faces shocked and disappointed.
Meanwhile, Nyxander fled into the night's shadows of the castle, his young mind filled with all manner of thoughts about self-preservation and an inkling concerning the boundaries he would have to set in this world of adoration and peril.
The castle descended into chaos, Nyxander's name echoing like a beacon through the hallways as voices overlapped in their frantic search. Meanwhile, Nyxander flitted from one chamber to another, slipping through slivers of space beneath doors with a fledgling stride.
His movement was hindered not only by his nascent ability to walk but also by the peculiar sensation of the void around him. It draped over him like an intangible spider's web, pulsing with the threat of entrapment. Every movement required not just strength but attunement to the cosmic threads binding him.
Amid this turmoil, in Nihara's chamber, the air was calm yet tinged with subtle tension. Nihara lay reclined against the wall, her ethereal beauty juxtaposed with the faint weariness in her eyes.
Zephyrion sat beside her, his presence a fortress of support. "How do you feel?" he asked, his voice a deep cadence of concern. Placing his hand on her chest, he channeled a stream of essentia energy into her. Yet, her own energy rejected his with a gentle but firm rebuff. "You don't need to burden yourself," Nihara replied, her fingers clasping his with reassuring strength. "There are signs of improvement in my internal injuries, however minor."
Zephyrion's jaw tightened, his expression shadowed by self-reproach. "I understand, but I can't erase the guilt of my involvement." Their gazes locked, her smile an anchor pulling him from his sea of regret. He managed a faint smile in return, the tenderness between them tangible.
Their intimate moment was interrupted by a faint rustling at the door. Turning in unison, their eyes widened as Nyxander appeared, emerging through the minuscule gap before returning to his original size, his tiny feet steady despite the unrelenting void webs barring his path.
"What!" they exclaimed in tandem, their disbelief hanging in the air like a palpable force. Regular newborn primordials took ten months to walk, yet here was their son, defying conventions at only five months old. Nyxander struggled forward, weaving through the invisible nets only he could perceive. To his parents, it appeared as though he was learning to walk, but Zephyrion sensed something more profound. In a flash of paternal instinct, he closed the distance, scooping Nyxander into his arms.
Cradling his son with his left arm, Zephyrion strode to the door. A firm knock echoed. Opening the door slightly, he found the two nannies, their faces ashen with guilt. Their trembling forms betrayed their attempt at composure. Without warning, they fell to their knees, their foreheads striking the floor with a resounding impact, a ripple of contrition spreading through the air.
"Please forgive our incompetence," they stammered, their voices heavy with contrition and fear. Zephyrion's brow furrowed as he observed their trembling forms. "What happened to cause such a reaction?" he asked, his tone even but edged with curiosity.
"We are the nannies assigned to the young Archon for his today massage," one began hesitantly, their voices overlapping like a discordant melody. Before they could fully explain, realization dawned upon Zephyrion. A knowing smile curved his lips as he glanced at Nyxander, piecing together the infant's mischief.
"There's no need to fret," he reassured them, his voice a gentle breeze dispelling their storm of anxiety.
The nannies' heads snapped up, disbelief etched into their features. "You heard me," Zephyrion affirmed, this time revealing Nyxander in his arm. "He's safe. Return to your duties."
The nannies, though reluctant, obeyed, their retreat marked by glances filled with both awe and confusion. Their departure coincided with the arrival of Obsidar, whose imposing form filled the doorway. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, scanned the room, his curiosity unmasked.
"What transpired here?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble.
"Nothing significant," Zephyrion replied, his tone light yet guarded, dismissing the incident as a misunderstanding. Obsidar's keen gaze lingered for a moment before he entered, leaving the retreating nannies to their whispered speculation. With the door closing behind them, the room returned to a semblance of calm, though the air remained charged with the echoes of Nyxander's extraordinary presence.